


libertine

by light



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Dubious Consent, M/M, Soul Bond, The Reichenbach Fall
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2012-07-08
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:20:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/light/pseuds/light
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where omegas are incredibly rare, John gets reassigned to a new alpha after Sherlock dies.  Too bad Sherlock isn't actually dead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	libertine

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in one sitting and has not undergone any editing. As always, everything I write is dedicated to C.
> 
>  **edit** \- Should be fixed of typos now. One day I will stop writing and posting porn at five AM.

Mycroft finds him two months after his supposed death. 

He’s squatting in an abandoned flat at the edge of Paris, peeling wallpaper and no electricity. The entire building is abandoned and deemed unsafe to live in but Sherlock knows that there’s a beta-beta couple downstairs and an omega in the flat above him. He hears the couple downstairs scream at each other in French until late into the night. The omega he knows is there because she slipped up on taking her suppressants once before the couple moved in. He doesn’t think any of them know he’s also there.

He should report the omega. But he’s here for more important reasons and he has no interest in outing his whereabouts, nor does he care about petty omega policies. 

So he keeps a change of clothes hidden underneath the floorboards, sleeps on the tattered mattress that had been left behind, and takes advantage of the still-running water late into the dark and tries not to miss John, crave his solid warmth and soft hair. It’s easier with the suppressants--the ones that neutralize his pheromones and dulls his senses. He hates it--the way it fuzzes his thoughts at a time when he needs clarity the most--but the advantages far outweigh the consequences. Nobody will remember the nondescript beta and he needs anonymity more than anything else.

Sherlock knows that Mycroft must have figured it out within weeks. He's always been too much of a stickler for details and no doubt Molly caved to intimidation when he came around to question her about the paperwork. But two months--it’s longer than Sherlock expected.

Mycroft is waiting for him when he climbs in through the kitchen window. He sits in a wooden chair that he’s procured from somewhere--Sherlock certainly didn’t have one earlier. Sherlock straightens as he lands on the concrete floor and looks at Mycroft.

“Took a long time to track you here,” Mycroft says.

Sherlock doesn’t speak but goes to wash his hands at the sink.

“You’re using a blocker,” Mycroft observes, “Careful with those. Prolonged use might result in sterility.”

“What do you care,” Sherlock snarls.

“I’m concerned about you,” Mycroft says, unfazed.

“Why are you really here?” Sherlock demands.

Mycroft rises to his feet, “Come home, brother.”

“You know I can’t.”

Mycroft folds his hands in front of him, looking at Sherlock, “It’s been two months.”

“It’s taking longer than expected,” Sherlock admits, but he’s not going to give Mycroft the satisfaction of asking for help.

“You,” Mycroft says, “Have been presumed dead for two months.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes.

“Sherlock. You know how coveted omegas are.”

_John._

“No,” the word is half strangled, coming out of Sherlock’s mouth, “You can’t.” They couldn’t--Sherlock would rip them limb from limb, fight every last one of them with his bare hands before any of them could lay a hand on John.

“I tried to stall it as long as I could,” Mycroft replies, “But now the council says the grieving period is over.”

“I’m not dead!” Sherlock roars.

~

A summons. John was surprised it hadn’t come earlier.

He knew it would come to this eventually. In the end, all the omegas were caught, weren’t they?

He might have made it, if not for Sherlock. But for living half his life out of the grasp of the council, for the half-year he was Sherlock’s--maybe it was worth it.

He can’t imagine what use anybody would have for a broken omega. But considering the birth rates, it wasn’t like they had much of a choice.

On a Tuesday in late August, John puts on his suit. He doesn’t look at himself in the mirror and doesn’t bother to fix the tie that he’s tied two inches too short. He hasn’t had his heat since Sherlock left. He had been due for one in July. Both his own medical training and his therapist assured him that it was normal.

He sits in front of the council. They look at him front their high stands. He thinks vaguely that he should feel offended for being treated like a piece of meat. He would have been furious at the entire proceeding if it taken place three years ago, but now he finds it hard to care.

“It’s a pity that his Bonded is gone,” one of the councilmen says, “They would have produced excellent offspring.”

“Hardy genetically compatible, though,” someone else replies, “Too high of a chance that they’d produce an alpha. The Holmeses are alpha dominant, aren’t they?”

“Lady Holmes was beta heterozygous. Surely someone of her prominence would have had her sons tested.”

“Sherlock Holmes was alpha heterozygous--”

Someone slams their hand onto the table. “It doesn’t matter,” he says, “Because Sherlock Holmes is dead. We are wasting valuable time here.”

John keeps his eyes on the hands folded in his lap and doesn’t say anything at all.

~

Sherlock leaves Paris for Moscow with a slew of fake documentation--a gift from Mycroft. He decides to stop using the suppressants. Maybe it’s a stupid move, especially in his state of aggressive desperation, but he needs his mind to be clear, he needs to be able to _think_. He needs to get back to John before--

A snarl of incoherent rage breaks past his composure, fingers digging into the armrest of where he’s waiting for his plane to Russia. The woman across from him gives him a terrified look and Sherlock forces it all back down, forces him to retreat back into himself.

If he gave in now, John would never be safe. Neither of them would ever be safe. Even Mycroft couldn’t stop Moriarty's syndicate from finding the two of them. And if they knew that Sherlock was still alive and that Moriarty died for nothing--they would come searching.

He will get back to John. He will have John back. He will tear the other alpha apart if he has to.

~

“To help dissolve the Bond,” the doctor says as he hands John a bottle of pale yellow pills. John looks down at it.

“What’s in it?”

“A mix of things,” the doctor says, “It’s supposed to help reset your cycles and revert your body to a clean slate.”

“Aphrone synthase inhibitor,” John says, looking at the label, “And you said Aphronemab treatments every week?” He laughs without humour, “I used to use these when I was in hiding.”

The doctor looks interested, “You were in hiding?”

John tucks the bottle into his coat and picks up the umbrella leaning against his chair. His smile is blank as he stands up. “Well. I’m here now.”

~

It doesn’t work.

The first time that John tries to take the pills, he finds himself emptying the contents of his stomach into the toilet five minutes later.

The second time, he forces himself to keep it down and ends up with a headache so horrible that he ends up vomiting anyway. He takes a nap and when he wakes, his body aches and his glands are all tender to the touch. He has a fever and his head still hurts. But he ends up laughing when he realizes that his lymph nodes have swollen too.

“I can’t take these,” he tells the doctor over the phone, “I must have developed a reaction against them after I stopped taking them.”

“I see,” the doctor says, “I’ll let the council know for you.”

~

Sherlock shoots a man with his own gun. He copies everything from the computer onto a thumb drive and takes the gun with him when he leaves.

He still has blood under his fingernails when he steals a mobile. Mycroft answers on the third ring.

“Tell me,” Sherlock says.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“What is his name?”

“I really don’t think I should tell you that.”

“What is,” Sherlock repeats, “His name?”

Silence. Sherlock is furious that Mycroft might have disconnected and he’s about to crush the phone when Mycroft says, “Mark. Mark Morstan.”

~

They meet at a cafe. A tall brown-haired man sits at a table with a small cup of coffee, looking nervously out the window. He’s looking in the wrong direction. John orders a decaf and glances back at the man. This man has glasses--the picture that the council had given him didn’t--but he recognizes him all the same.

“Hello,” he says, taking the seat across. The man jumps and stares at him.

“I’m John,” John says after a minute. The man shakes himself and smiles, holding out a hand. John looks at it and has to bite down on the hysterical laughter threatening to bubble up. If the council got their way, the two of them would be shagging within the month. God.

“I’m Mark.”

John forces himself to smile and shakes his hand. Mark’s fingertips touch the inside of his wrist and John wants to rip his hand away, wants to go back to 221B and crawl into Sherlock’s closet, wants his own alpha back--

“I haven’t met many omegas before. And definitely not this close,” Mark admits, “I couldn’t believe when my sister called to tell me I was the best match. I’m just--I’m just very honoured, really.”

John swallows and pulls his hand back. Mark jerks his hand back as if surprised he had held on to John for so long.

“You’re not--” Mark clears his throat, “You’re still Bonded though.”

“Yes,” John says, “I can’t use the medication.”

“Oh,” Mark says, “So--”

“It’ll go away with time,” John says.

“Okay,” Mark says, “That’s okay. I won’t push you.”

~

By the time October starts, the traces of Sherlock’s scent have all but faded away. John washes the sheets from their bed and folds them into precise corners around the edges of the mattress. He throws Sherlock’s dry toothbrush away and packs his own toiletries into a box. He can’t stay here any longer--not when he keeps turning around to catch a phantom whiff of Sherlock’s scent, not when he thinks he hears violins at night, not when he keeps seeing the flash of a dark coat out of the corner of the eye.

Four months and the Bond hasn’t faded.

John doesn’t know what to do.

~

Sherlock inadvertently disbands an omega smuggling ring when he takes down one of Moriarty’s associates. There are six of them--an entire family of omegas who had lived isolated in the Siberian woods. He doesn’t speak their language but it’s obvious what the father is trying to do, the way that he pushes one of his daughters at Sherlock.

He doesn’t have time to shake his head and figure out how to convey _no_ , before she smiles at him and the room floods with her scent. It’s delicious and Sherlock’s body reacts of its own volition. But he doesn’t want her--he wants _John_ who belongs to him, who he must keep safe by staying away.

She steps closer, touches the front of his jacket, and lifts her chin. She’s offering her neck.

Sherlock shoves her away, can’t remember what he says to them, and flees.

Later, he manages to hide away in a cargo car of a train heading east. The floor jostles as the train runs over the tracks and he’s tucked uncomfortably between stacks of crates but he can’t help himself. His hands slips beneath his trousers and he imagines John spread out beneath him, imagines the sweat on his shoulders, his knot pressed right into the heat of John, the way that his thighs trembled against Sherlock’s knees, the low keen of his moan. He imagines the way that John presses his forehead against Sherlock’s chest when they’re through, the sweet scent of John’s heat ebbing and coming back in full force in the morning. He remembers licking his own seed out of John’s hole, the way that John would sink his hands into his hair just a little bit too tight when Sherlock’s tongue dragged over a particularly sensitive spot.

It’s not enough. But he comes with a soft cry and John’s name on his lips, hand cupped over the head of his cock.

He scrapes his palm clean on the edge of a crate and leans his head against another. The clanging of the train over the tracks is loud but he’s far too exhausted to care.

~

John didn’t want children--he was close to forty and he wouldn’t be surprised if twenty-some years of taking suppressants had fucked up whatever eggs might be released. He took contraceptives after the heats he spent with Sherlock. Sherlock never said anything but John took it as a given that he didn’t want children either.

He wish that he had though. He wish he let Sherlock breed him. He wants something, _anything_ to tie him to Sherlock, something physical which was _theirs_.

~

His alarm goes off at five thirty in the morning. Sherlock takes his coat and his stolen laptop from the locker and goes to splash water on his face. He pays three thousand yen for the bed.

Sherlock slips into a twenty-four hour internet cafe and pays for an hour of wifi.

Halfway across Tokyo, five offices in three buildings explode. No casualties, but important information is lost. Sherlock needs to make his way back to Seoul.

Before Sherlock leaves, he stares at the images Mycroft has sent to one of his various emails. He hesitates for a moment but ends up printing a thumbnail of one of the photographs. He tucks it behind the two fake identification cards (France, New York) in his wallet.

Sometimes when he’s half out of his mind with exhaustion, it’s hard to conjure the exact shape of John’s face. But he remembers the scent of the other man--the combination of musk and sweat and pheromone that was uniquely John--like he had just pressed his face in the crook of John’s neck. And there was the presence of their unbroken Bond--a reassurance thrumming low in his awareness, pushing him on until the day he could return to London.

~

The council summons him. He can’t be the only omega in London, but he seems to be the only one they’re interested in.

“We appreciate your cooperation,” one of them says once they are all seated, “And we are still very sympathetic for everything you’ve been through.”

John stares at him, “But?”

The man coughs and glances around at his fellow councilmen before proceeding, “Some of us believe that you haven’t been entirely truthful about the depth of your Bond with Mr. Holmes.”

John doesn’t reply for a moment. And then he says, very calmly, “You think I’m lying to get out of this.”

“Not lying!” the man hurries to say, “Just that perhaps your grief has biased your ability to gauge the extent of your Bond.”

John laughs. It’s not happy. “You think I want to be tied to a dead man.”

Someone to his left speaks up, “It’s just that this is unprecedented. Bonds never take this long to dissolve.”

“Smell me,” John lifts his chin, “You’re all alphas, aren’t you? Smell me and tell me that I’m not still Bonded.”

An uncomfortable silence drops. The councilmen look at each other.

“Still,” the first councilman finally says, “We would like it if you began the Bonding process with Mr. Morstan. Some of us believe that it will help to dislodge your old Bond.”

John regards them all silently. And then he says, “That won’t do anything.”

“I’m sorry Dr. Watson,” the councilman says, “That wasn’t a request.”

~

John walks past the butler in the Diogenes Club who whispers furiously at him to stop stomping. He finds Mycroft sitting in the only room where they allowed conversation. He must have seen John coming then.

“Where is he?”

Mycroft looks up from his newspaper, “Hello John.”

“He’s alive isn’t he? Where is he?”

Mycroft sets the newspaper aside and leans forward. His voice is full of pity when he says, “John.”

“Do not,” John growls, stepping towards Mycroft, “Don’t you dare try to convince me that I’m wrong. It’s been half a year, Mycroft, and this Bond hasn’t even shown signs of fading. The longest a bond lasts after one of the Bonded dies? Two months. Maximum.”

Mycroft sits back and looks at John.

“At first I thought that it was just because I was--” here John’s voice breaks for a moment and he hates himself for it, “--horrifically in love with Sherlock. That somehow what we were transcended whatever observations scientists had made previously. But that’s not true, is it? I haven’t transcended biology. We’re not _special_.”

Mycroft doesn’t answer.

“He has to be alive. I know it.”

Mycroft closes his eyes and sighs.

“Tell me,” John says, his voice quiet, “Where is he?”

~

John and Mark have a standing date on Tuesdays after John’s shift at the surgery.

“The council contacted me,” Mark says the moment that their menus are taken away. John looks from the fork to Mark’s face. Mark smiles tentatively, “I mean--I hope you’re alright with their decision. I really don’t want to force anything you don’t want to do.”

John looks back down at his plate.

“John,” Mark says after a moment, “Are you all right?”

Christ. He had been so sure. He thought--god, he had thought that Sherlock--

But Mycroft had told him that he had personally gone over the records and helped to identify the body before the funeral. Sherlock was dead. They had buried him.

And his persistent Bond. Just a biological anomaly.

“I’m fine,” John says, forcing himself to look up at Mark with a smile, “Sometimes I just--get into my own head a little too much. Trying to break the habit.”

“I can’t imagine what you’re going through,” Mark says, “I mean, I’ve watched you the last couple of months. But like, I haven’t been Bonded or anything.” He laughs, a little awkwardly, “Obviously.”

John studies Mark. He’s handsome--nothing like Sherlock’s high cheekbones and half-sneer--and he’s nice. Far nicer than John thought he would be--considering how long he’d been putting off having sex. He amused John with stories about his students when their conversations came to a lull. He could tell when John needed his space. If John hadn’t known that the council had picked Mark out for him, he wouldn’t have pegged the man for an Alpha at all. He barely produced any scent.

“Let’s start it,” John hears himself saying.

“John,” Mark sounds surprised.

“The Bonding,” John says because he can’t stand it any more, doesn’t want to be tied to the memory of Sherlock forever, a ghost dragging him down and reminding him of all the empty spaces inside.

“Are you sure?”

“Tonight.” John struggles to say the word because his body rebels against him. His hands are pressed flat to the top of the table, knuckles white and his throat closes up halfway between the syllables but it’s choked out anyway and John can’t take it back because Mark looks--he’s smiling at John, a wide beaming smile and John catches it--the scent of alpha.

“I’ll take care of you,” Mark says and John convinces himself that he wants this.

~

Mark’s scent is wrong.

Mark pulls off his shirt with a grin at John and John smiles back, even though it doesn’t reach his eyes. Mark puts a hand on John’s hip as John pulls off his own shirt mechanically.

Mark pushes him on the bed and helps him out of his trousers. John closes his eyes and breathes deep--but Mark’s scent is wrong.

Mark notices when he goes to pull down John’s briefs and John tenses. Mark crawls up his torso and kisses John. It’s not the first time they’ve kissed. John forces himself to relax. Mark slides his briefs off. John’s not in heat so he’s not even a little bit wet.

“Lube?” John asks, “Condom?”

Mark’s warmth disappears momentarily. John closes his eyes and feels disgusted by himself with the way that his throat has closed up. He knows if he speaks now his voice will be shaky so he decides to keep his mouth shut. It wouldn’t do if Mark--kind Mark--was the only one participating in his sex so he at least lifts his hips when Mark slides a slick finger into his hole.

He starts to stretch John open. John keeps his eyes closed. If he tries to ignore the scent, he could pretend that it was Sherlock with his fingers in John, stretching him open, alternating between stroking his prostate and his gland. He could pretend that it was Sherlock who was kissing his stomach, stroking his other hand down his side. And maybe it was working, if the way blood was pooling in his cock had anything to say about it.

“Turn over,” Mark murmurs, and John does. It’s even easier to pretend this way--he can keep his face pressed into his pillow and that wrong scent would be filtered out. Mark angles himself and pushes in--John’s body can’t help but push back. Mark builds up a rhythm and John is too caught up in how _wrong_ this entire experience is to wrap a hand around himself. Mark might be muttering words--but John can’t focus on them--can’t focus on anything except that this is not Sherlock, this is not _his_ alpha and Jesus fucking Christ he would give anything to have Sherlock back, Sherlock who rubbed against him lazily in the morning and kissed his temple every time they were through.

In the end, Mark comes for a long time even without his knot and John is beginning to understand better why the council picked him over their no doubt comprehensive selection of alphas. John doesn’t come and he catches Mark’s hand by the wrist when Mark reaches around.

“John?” Mark looks up at his face. John hopes that it’s blank.

“Leave it,” at least his words are coming out steady.

“John,” Mark says, “At least let me--”

“Leave it,” John repeats, anger threading into his voice. He lets go of Mark’s wrist, “It’s not anything about us. It’s this Bond.”

Mark shifts and John feels him kissing the back of his neck. His breath stirs the hairs at the nape of John’s neck when he whispers, “May I?”

John doesn’t move for a moment. And then he slowly tilts his head up and to the left, revealing his neck.

Mark kisses it before he bites down.

~

Four thousand miles away in Atlanta, Sherlock’s heart skips two beats before climbing into tachycardia. Sherlock presses his hand against his chest and stares unseeingly at the selection of guns his companion is showing him.

“Something the matter?” the man asks, moving to shut the briefcase. Sherlock stops it with a gloved hand.

“Just considering my options,” Sherlock replies, trying for smooth, but it comes out unsteady, “I’ll take this one.”

Their Bond is beginning to fray. It takes every ounce of Sherlock’s self control not to walk out of that room and onto a plane bound for London.

~

“It’s starting,” Sherlock says over the phone as he composes a set of emails required to keep his network of lies up, “It’s been strong the last six months and two days ago, I felt it fraying.”

“He came and asked me about you, you know,” Mycroft says, “He would have followed you out there.”

“I work better alone.”

“I lied for you.”

“You owe me,” Sherlock says viciously.

Mycroft doesn’t reply.

Sherlock closes his eyes and his fingers still on the laptop keyboard. He hasn’t shown this much weakness to Mycroft in a state of sobriety since they were children, “What if he slips away?”

Mycroft’s response is calm. “Hurry, Sherlock.”

“Can you--” his voice shakes and he hates it, hates it so much, “Can you send me a picture. Or his words. Anything.”

Mycroft is silent for a few moments before he says, “I’ll see what I can do.”

~

John hasn’t been to Sherlock’s grave since July.

It snows. John’s scarf still smells a bit like Sherlock because he didn’t bother to unpack it from his box of winter clothing until earlier that day. He doesn’t stop to think about how pathetic that makes him--seeking out the last scraps of Sherlock’s existence.

His Bond with Sherlock is finally starting to fade. Slowly--but Sherlock’s absence doesn’t hurt as much as it did a month ago.

He sits in the snow with his back against Sherlock’s headstone and closes his eyes. He hasn’t brought flowers. He’s not here to respect the dead. He wants--he needs some form of closure.

But what he really wants--needs, is for Sherlock to come back. And no matter how many times he’s told himself that it’s a ridiculous hope, that he’s banking on a lie, there’s something about their seven-month not-severed Bond that keeps him believing.

He needs to let it go. He’s either going to walk away unBonded from this cemetery tonight, or freeze to death trying.

~

Sherlock feels it on his very last mission--taking down Moran in New York. He stands in the corner of the ballroom where the gala is hosted, calculating Moran’s movements and how to best kill him discreetly. There’s a gun in his suit jacket and he’s just waiting for the opportunity.

Except his world tilts momentarily--slips out from under him and when Sherlock blinks hard and comes back into himself, it’s no longer there. It’s gone. Everything is gone.

Sherlock pulls the gun from his jacket and aims. Gunshot. Women start screaming. He missed Moran completely and now the other man is on the move. Sloppy. Terrible.

The police won’t get here for a while. Sherlock jammed their radio frequency and made sure that the majority of them were occupied in Greenwich Village. He narrows his mind into the sole goal of hunting Moran down and tries to ignore the missing part of him. If he only he wasn’t letting off so much furious alpha pheromone--he could be using his sense of smell to track Moran down. But it doesn’t matter--Sherlock still has his mind and his ability to predict human behaviour and it’s all he needs.

He corners Moran on the roof.

“Well, this is fitting,” Moran says to him.

The Sherlock from an hour ago would have wanted answers.

The Sherlock now lifts his gun and shoots.

~

Flight time from JFK to Heathrow is seven hours.

Sherlock spends it staring blankly at the back of the seat in front of him and thinking that he had been too slow, too late--what if John had reBonded already? Sherlock wouldn’t even hesitate to kill the other alpha, he wouldn’t feel a thing with his hands around the other alpha’s throat. No alpha could take him, not after what he had been through to get here, Sherlock knew.

But would John take him after that? Would he take him if he knew that Sherlock was a murderer without remorse, even if Sherlock pleaded that he had done it for _them_?

He doesn’t dare to dwell on the hollow parts inside of him, the places where Sherlock had _been_ John, through and through. He doesn’t dare to look at them too closely because he’s afraid he might just lose his mind if he did.

~

Mycroft sends him a text that Mrs. Hudson needs his help figuring out which boxes of Sherlock’s to donate to the local school. John wants to tell him to tell her to send all of it--he couldn’t care less--but he hasn’t seen Mrs. Hudson since he moved out so he decides to stop by the old flat, even if it will break his heart anew.

He pauses in front of the flat to fumble for his keys, and that’s when he catches it--the fresh scent of alpha. Sherlock, specifically. But that can’t be right--John puts it down to hallucinations brought on by the trauma of his almost-fresh severance and pushes the door open.

It’s stronger inside. John stops in the threshold of the door, not daring to believe.

Seventeen steps up. Sherlock has to know that he’s here.

He opens the door to their flat. Sherlock stands on the other side.

He’s paler and thinner than John remembers, and his hair is shorter. He has a bruise on his cheek and he’s staring at John like John might save him from drowning.

“John,” Sherlock says and steps forward. John holds on to the doorframe, unsure how to breathe--he’s suddenly feeling lightheaded with a familiar warmth washing through his body. He hasn’t felt this way in over half a year, hasn’t felt the rise of his heat since Sherlock fucking _died_.

“You bastard,” John chokes out and he wants to punch the other man as much as he wants to kiss him. He slowly lets go of the doorframe. He’s barely spent two minutes in Sherlock’s presence and he already feels the familiar wetness slipping between the cheeks of his arse, the overwhelming need to get these scratchy clothes off. Sherlock reaches for him, one hand curling possessively against his hip, other hand against the side of John’s face, thumb sweeping across John’s cheekbone. He never breaks eye contact with John and John needs him, needs to push his way back into the essence of Sherlock, needs to remake their Bond and build it even stronger, build walls around it, send electricity crackling along the length of it until it was impossible to break.

John leans forward and breathes Sherlock in--he could fucking _cry_ with how right Sherlock smells, the way that their scents mix, the way that it drives John crazy until he wants nothing else but to be under Sherlock, taken apart by Sherlock’s tongue and fingers, until everything is Sherlock. Maybe Sherlock is having similar thoughts because his fingers shake as he cups John’s jaw to turn his face and they’re kissing, Sherlock’s tongue sliding wetly past his. He’s forgotten how delicious Sherlock tastes, and he pushes against Sherlock, deepening their kiss despite the traces of cigarette smoke. Sherlock moves carefully, like he’s making an effort to control himself and John can’t help himself when he rubs up against Sherlock.

“Bed,” John whispers as he pulls away and Sherlock immediately starts towards his bedroom. He takes his shirt off as he goes (god he’s so thin--but John will take care of him), then unbuttons his trousers before yanking those off too. John wastes no time in finally taking everything off. They keep a part of their skin in contact at all times: John’s forearm against Sherlock’s wrists, ankle against ankle--until Sherlock pushes John onto the bed and lies flush against him.

“I didn’t want to,” John hears himself babbling as Sherlock tongues the dip of his collarbone, “I swear I didn’t want to. But I thought you were gone.”

Sherlock’s tongue drags up the length of his neck and then he’s mouthing at the shell of John’s ear, fingertips stroking against John’s side. “I’m here.”

“We’ll remake it,” John says, hands tightening against Sherlock’s hips, rolling his own against the glorious length of Sherlock’s cock. He’s leaking so much, like his glands are making up for lost time, lubrication pooling into the clean sheets. “Stronger,” he gasps as Sherlock grazes his teeth against the pulse point in John’s neck. He doesn’t even have to think about baring his neck, his body is already doing it for him. Sherlock’s hand splays against his back as Sherlock presses closer to him like he’s trying to crawl inside John. He sucks a bruising kiss against John’s neck and then he bites down.

Everything starts to fall back into place.

John wants to sob with relief. Sherlock licks gently where he bit.

“I need you,” John manages to whisper, “I need you right now.”

Sherlock pulls away and John almost wants to take his words back, but then Sherlock is pushing fingers into him and John has his head thrown back, a low whine in his throat. Sherlock moves them for a moment, adjusting--then he crooks his index finger and strokes John from the inside. John’s cock leaks pre-come and god, it’s good, it’s so fucking good but John needs more, he needs--

“Come on,” John gasps, “I’m yours, fucking take me.”

Sherlock touches his hip before moving and angling himself so that the blunt head of his cock touches John’s hole. John moves his hips, pushes the first half inch of Sherlock’s cock into himself before Sherlock moves the rest of the way in. John has missed this, can’t imagine having gone so long without it. He feels so full, comfortably stretched with Sherlock inside him and he pulls Sherlock down against him so he can kiss him. Sherlock kisses ferociously, teeth and anger as he thrusts into John and John wants it, wants all of it.

“The other alpha,” Sherlock growls against John’s lips, “Tell me he didn’t take any part of you.”

“He was nothing,” John says breathlessly, “I’m yours. I always have been.”

Sherlock buries his face in John’s neck and John can feel the familiar swell of Sherlock’s knot inflating and tying them together. John drags his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, touches his shoulders and his arms as Sherlock pants hot air against his neck, trembling. John feels the hot spurts within him and he tries to pull Sherlock deeper, wants to milk his gorgeous cock for every last bit Sherlock will give him.

“I won’t let it happen ever again,” Sherlock says into John’s throat, “I’ll destroy every last one of them.” His hand closes around John’s cock and John hears himself moaning, hands tightening on Sherlock’s arse. He feels Sherlock come again inside him and makes an effort to control his breathing as Sherlock starts to move his hand, firm pressure.

Bright fire crawls up his spine and overtakes his mind and John gasps Sherlock’s name into his hair when he comes: _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_.

~

Sunshine falls in a stripe against John’s bare back. Sherlock traces it with a fingertip.

John stirs. He looks up at Sherlock with sleepy eyes and smiles.

“Do you feel that?”

Sherlock thumbs the corner of John’s mouth and leans down to brush a kiss against his temple. “Feel what?”

John shifts closer, wrist settling on Sherlock’s hip. “Us.”

Sherlock smiles.


End file.
